


All the Sinners, Saints

by DarthNickels



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Do you ever just write something really fucking strange, Gen, If you put the magical realism tag on does it make it any less weird, Magical Realism, POV First Person, Wingfic, which I will never write again by the way experiment failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: Less like flying and more like a controlled descent





	All the Sinners, Saints

They say any landing you walk away from is a good one. I think ‘they’ should factor in how hard you hit a wall on your way down.

I reached over my shoulder, slipping my fingers under the collar of my shirt and wincing—the skin there was hot to touch, the barest brush of my fingers set the muscles underneath spasming. I’ll have to look at it in the mirror when I get home, but I’m dreading what I’ll see—not all my victims accept their fate quietly, but few manage to give me something to remember them by.  

               Surely Peter Kaiser (age 45, confirmed body count 2, suspected 6) didn’t throw me into the wall _that_ hard.

               I gritted my teeth as I slid into my car, wincing as settled against the seat. I shouldn’t have put it off this long. I’d been having pain and spasms for a month since my brother died—passive voice, I know, but it eases the memory of me killing him. I chalked it up to stress, to carrying the lingering weight of my dead brother on my shoulders—

\--but for a metaphorical burden, this seemed a little much. I spent the drive home with my jaw clenched tight, hard enough to crack a tooth.

                I pulled in the driveway, releasing my death grip on the steering wheel—almost surprised my fingers didn’t leave a dent. _Ow_. I should go to the hospital—but I can’t afford to answer any awkward questions about the circumstances in which I was injured right now.

               “Hey you,” Rita called as I shut the front door behind me. I smiled, hoping to keep the grimace out of my expression. It was good to see her, of course, just not—right now. “I just put the kids to bed. How was work?”

               “It was…hectic,” I settled on. “Just barely got down what I needed to do.”

               “Oh?” she asked, looking up from her tea. “Everything alright?”

               “You know me,” I said, easily—sometimes I like Fake Dexter. I like _being_ him. He’s second nature now, I slip into him like an old t-shirt. He shares none of my problems, has no lingering existential crisis hanging over his head. He’s just…flat. “I’m like a dog with a bone.”

               “You sure are,” she said, knowingly. She sidled up to me, looking up through her lashes. I wince internally. That look means only one thing—and I can’t deliver right now. “Maybe we can find a way to relax a little.”

               “I’m not sure that’s such a good— _ah_!” Rita’s teasing flingers brushed up my spine, and even her gentle, flirtatious touch was agony.

               I’ve really done it now.

               “Dexter?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

               “It’s nothing,” I assure her, quickly—too quickly to be believable. “I think I just strained something—moved an old filing cabinet—forgot to lift from the legs--”

               “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” Rita said, skeptically. “You should get that looked at…”

               “No!” I force out, hanging onto my disguise by a fingernail. “It’s late, no one’s open—think I’ll just—lie down…”

               “Okay…” Rita said, uncertainly. “If you really think nothing’s wrong…” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll go look in the medicine cabinet—we should have something for this…”

               “Aspirin’s fine,” I assured her, weakly. Mummified in IcyHot, reeking like wintergreen wasn’t my idea of recovery. “Let me just—”

               “Go, go—I’ll be there in a minute.”

               I staggered into the bedroom, gently shutting the door, hoping this brief moment of privacy would be enough to time to self-diagnose. I gripped the hem of my shirt, bracing myself, and pulled it off in one agonizing movement—there. That was done with. And now—

               Living with Rita had its advantages—she thoughtfully equipped her bedroom with a full-length mirror in the closet, and a vanity on the opposite wall I could easily align it with, giving me full visibility of my dorsal side. And what I saw—

               No. No _way_. Not this, not now.

               _Not me_.

               But there it is, I know what I’m seeing—everyone knows. Only about ten percent of the population has wings—somewhere around one in twenty—but sometimes before high school everyone gets the awkward film on Your Changing Body. No one knows why some humans sprout wings, and predicting when and where they’ll strike is impossible—they can erupt with deciduous teeth in infants, or come at puberty because why not make things even more confusing for teenagers—but rarely in adults.

               And certainly not adults like _me_.

               Of course, it’s a myth that there’s any kind of correlation with wings and inherent goodness—I’ve had a handful strapped to my table who managed to hide less than angelic behavior on the strength of that myth. Cleaning up the feathers afterward was always a pain.

               _I’m rambling. What am I supposed to do?_ My back spasmed again, and I shoved my fist in my mouth to suppress a groan. I watched in half-detached, half-fascinated horror as the two small limbs stretched outwards, growing _longer_ —like some hideous alien plant taking root in my flesh…

               They couldn’t stay. Ten percent isn’t unheard of, but it’s rare enough to be noticeable—the absolute last thing I need is an eye-catching, _memorable_ set of limbs, shedding DNA wherever I go. What would Harry have thought about this? What would he have done?

               _I need to focus_. There were places to have these kinds of things taken care of—discreet places, cash only, no paperwork, no sign out front. Sometimes they even had real doctors, usually ones with low standards and high mortgages. I could slip past Rita, dip into my emergency cash, have this taken care of without anyone having to know—

               “Dexter?” I turned, clutching my discarded shirt to my chest—where it didn’t do me any good. Rita stood in the doorway, holding a caddy with an assortment of offerings from CVS. “Let me see…”

               “Actually,” I said, trying and failing to keep the strain from my voice, “I think you’re right—I can probably go to the emergency room, get this looked at—”

               “Okay,” she said, putting her caddy down. “I’ll come with you.”

               “No—you know how Jackson Memorial is—it’ll be hours—the kids—”

               “Colleen can come over,” Rita said, impatiently. “If its _that_ bad you shouldn’t be driving yourself—”

               “It’s not that bad—”

               “But you have to go to the emergency room?” She demanded. She took a step forward, and I stepped back. “Dexter, stop. Don’t be stubborn—” she stopped, her eyes narrowing. “Are you—hiding something from me?”

               _Usually, yes_. “No!”

               “What? Did you get a—a bad tattoo?” she asked, half-giggling. “Let me see—”

               “It’s nothing, it’s fine—” I pivoted, desperately trying to keep my front to her. “Here, let me just—” I thrust my arms in the holes of my shirt, but before I could pull it on—

               “Dexter!”

               The next spasm was too much. I doubled over hit the floor, kneeling and bent over. Deb had a whole vocabulary she could have deployed to describe what I was feeling—there’d be a Fuck Me In the Ass With A Chainsaw to express my dismay at being found out, followed up by a Goddamn Fuckin Son-of-a-Bitch Motherfuckin _Fuck_ for how much that hurt.

Deb always knows what to say.

               “Oh my God,” Rita was gasping, “Oh my God, Dexter—are you—?”

               “Looks like,” I wheezed.

               “Oh my _God_!” she pulled my head to her chest, stroking my face. _Rita please—I need air_. “I always knew,” she murmured. “I always knew there was something about you.”

               I offered a non-committal grunt. 

               “Come on,” she said, “let’s get you on the bed.” We made it, in a few slow, staggering steps, with me leaning on Rita more than I wanted to admit. I collapsed, face-first onto her bed—our bed, really—and shut my eyes.

               What am I going to do?

               “Take it easy,” Rita murmured. “Just let it happen. Kids go through this all the time.”

               “I’m—a little—old for this—” I panted.

               “There’s nothing wrong with being a late bloomer,” Rita soothed. “Just take it easy. I’m going to get some towels—this is going to get a little messy.” She giggled, as if she was talking about Cody tracking mud through the house instead of the prospect of broken skin and cracking bones, and set off to find her towels.

               _Great_ , I thought, dizzily. _Blood—my favorite_.

* * *

 

               I drifted in and out of lucidity for a while—the low-grade fever I dismissed as seasonal allergies roared to life, as if my immune system was just as blindsided by this development as I was. I had the vague impression of Rita, my faithful nursemaid, hovering over me, applying and reapplying wet towels, offering me water and aspirin. I really should have dragged myself to the doctor, it didn’t seem fair to ask this of her.

               “Don’t say that,” Rita assured me. “I wouldn’t want to have you anywhere but here.”

               Did I say that out loud? That’s not good.

               “You need to be careful, Dex,” Harry told me. He loomed over me, as he always did in my memory, even though I hadn’t been shorter than him for years. “This is a huge complication.”

               No shit, Detective Morgan.

               “I’m serious. You’re out of right now. And it’s going to be any easier once it’s over. Your days of anonymity are over unless you think of something.”

               “What am I supposed to do?”

               “Nothing,” Rita said, smoothing my hair back. “Stop worrying, I’m right here.”

               “What you should have done is taken preemptive measures,” Harry scolded. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

               How could I have planned for this? Should I have had a plan for a meteor strike? They were both equally likely.

               How am I supposed to be normal now?

               “Stop worrying about that,” Rita assured me. “You were always a special person—now everyone can see it.”

               “That’s what I’m afraid of…” I wheezed. Rita’s hand stopped.

               “Why?”

               “Harry…” I explained. Should I explain? Am I talking right now? “Taught me…how to be normal…”

               “Hey,” Rita took my face in her hands, lifting my chin upwards. Her face swam in and out of focus. “He would be so proud of you.”

               Don’t be so sure.

               “Hey!” Rita gave my face a shake. “Harry _would_ be proud of you—if he could see you right now—” Rita shook her head, unable to put the full force of her indignation into words. “He would, and don’t you forget it.”

               “…okay,” I agreed. Where had that come from?

                “Mom?” came a sleepy voice from the door. Of course. More witnesses.

               “It’s late,” Rita scolded. “You two should be in bed.”

               “You were loud,” that was Astor—right to the point. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with Dexter?”

               “Nothing’s wrong,” Rita sighed. “Come on, come in. Something very special is happening.”

               “Mom!” That was Cody, now wide awake: “Dexter’s going to be like me!”

               “That he is, honey,” Rita was saying. “No, don’t touch—they’re not finished yet.”

               “They’re bald,” Astor pointed out.

               “Fledging, sweetheart. Fledging. Like Cody’s remember?”

               “Hi kids,” I managed, weakly. “Some Friday night, huh?”

               “Dexter,” I could see a flurry of motion out of the corner of my eye: cream-with-brown-speckle feathers rattling excitedly. “What color will the be?”

               “No idea,” I answer, truthfully.

               “I didn’t think this happened to adults,” Astor remarked, with practiced neutrality. I turned, wincing at the pulled muscles, and met her eyes—deep, always with something moving in the depths.

               “That’s what I thought.” I knew her look—hurt, outside looking in—it was how Deb looked every time Harry and I left without her. “When you grow up and become a world-famous scientist, you can tell me why.”

               “Hmmm,” she offered, seemingly neutral, but I saw a small, shy smile.

               There was a sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. I jerked back, but Rita held me down.

               “Hey, easy there—” she said. At the same time I heard, shouted form the living room: “What the fuck is _up_ , Big Brother?”

               “You called _Deb_?” I asked, scandalized.

               “Of course I did,” Rita seemed confused. “She’s family. Don’t you want her here for this?”

               I don’t want _this_ in the first place. All of _this_ is equally bad—every person who sees is going to be another person with lingering question when _these_ go away.

               “Dexter, you son of a bitch! Look at you!” Deb said, cheerfully. I shut my eyes, pressing my face into the pillow.

               “It’s nearly midnight. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

               “Yeah, I should, asshole—you couldn’t have waited to do this at a more reasonable hour, huh?”

               “I didn’t have input on any part of this, trust me,” I muttered.

               “Jesus, Dex, you make it sound like a they found a tumor,” I heard a popping sound, and I winced.

               “Are you kidding? Is that—?”

               “Hell yeah its champagne!” Deb crowed. I shifted, watching her pour a bubbling stream into Rita’s mug. “Sorry, I didn’t bother looking for your glassware—”

               “It doesn’t exist,” Rita said, accepting the mug with good humor.

               “And sorry, brother, none for you,” Deb said, pouring herself a generous mug of the bubbly: “I asked the guy at the liquor store, and none of us knew what we were talking about, but we agreed you should probably hold off until the whole— _process_ is wrapped up.”

               Champagne and blood. This is like a baby shower from hell—but worse, because somehow I’m the baby. There’s something strange about the rituals people perform, almost without thinking about them—birthday must have cake, Christmas must have presents—as if it were natural, hardwired, ingrained. But me, without that software patch, I’m more than a little…glitchy. 

               And this particular ritual is stranger than most.

               “Don’t be so fucking grumpy—” Deb started, but Rita cleared her throat, nodding her head towards Astor and Cody. Deb clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh shit sorry—sorry! Forgot there was little ears. You two can’t talk like Aunty Deb unless you grow up to be cops, OK?”

               “Dexter says I’m going to be scientist,” Astor told her, pointedly.

               “Then you will be,” Deb reassured her. She turned back to me and grinned— “Come on, lighten up! They’re not going to be bald chicken wings forever.”

               I glanced over my shoulder—they had gotten long, almost fully-formed now; something vaguely saurian about their unfeathered appearance—some strange link, bird and humans and dinosaurs.

               What’s that they say about a lizard-brain?

               They flexed, almost inadvertently, and I gasped—the sensation of new, pale flesh rasping against my skin was—unnerving, so say the least.

               “This is going kind of fast,” I managed to grit out.

               “Making up for lost time,” Deb quipped—but her expression turned serious. “Is it really hurting you that bad?”

               “It’s not a picnic,” I groaned.

               “Here,” Rita said, putting her mug down. “I have some towels in the dryer, they should be ready—” she hurried off. Deb raised an eyebrow.

               “Hot towels at Hotel Rita,” she said, “She’ll spoil you.”

               “Hopefully I won’t have time to get used to it.”

               “Knock it off,” Deb said. “She’s great. Don’t fuck this up by—”

               “Bad language,” Astor reminded her, helpfully. Deb ruffled her hair.

               “Sorry, kiddo.”

               “Astor! Cody!” Rita called from the other room. “Come help Mommy with this laundry!”

               They took off, like good little helpers, leaving me stranded with my sister. Deb looked after them for a second, pressing her lips together. Then she turned back to me: “I mean it. She’s great for you. Don’t mess this up by being—you.”

               “Can’t help it— I’d be someone else if I could,” I say, truthfully.

               “Shut up, you know what I’m talking about.” She came over and sat by the edge of the bed. It dipped under her weight, jarring me, and I clenched my teeth as the motion sent ripples of pain down my back. She reached up, careful to avoid my somewhat monstrous-looking new limbs, and rested a hand between my shoulder blades. The pressure made me wince, but Deb continued, undeterred, rubbing small circles with her fingers.

               That didn’t feel so bad.

               “You’re really committed to be an asshole about this,” she said, in disbelief.

               “I’m not committed to anything,” I protested, weakly. “I’m just—” _not getting why anyone things this is a big deal, or anything other than a huge fucking inconvenience_ —“not having fun on this end of it, I guess.”

               “It makes sense that it would be harder for an adult,” Deb reasoned. “You’re all set in your ways—your body isn’t as spongy or whatever—”

               “Please don’t describe me as _spongy_ —”

               “Shut up!” she gave me a light smack on the back, and I hissed. “Oh whoops—but you did deserve it.” We sat in silence for a moment after that. I heard Deb exhale heavily through her nose—a sure sign she had something to say.

               “You really don’t think this is cool?” she asked, finally.

               “I guess, objectively speaking—”

               “No, not _objectively_ ,” she cut me off. “I mean—we see so much bad stuff every day of our fucking _lives_ , Dex. It’s blood, death, mayhem, suffering—”

               Deb doesn’t know I generate just as much of that ‘bad stuff’ as I witness, but I play my role as her captive audience and listen politely:

               “—all of the fucking shit in this shitty fucking world but like—” she throws up her hands. I turn to her, my curiosity piqued. “But miracles happen, Dex. There’s shit like, flowers and babies and shit—oh fuck you, don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean.”

               I absolutely did not know what she meant. I’m lost.

               “Cool shit,” she plunged ahead. “ _Good_ shit. The shit that makes us come back every day to our shitty fucking jobs and make it worth enduring all the bullshit. They’re miracles, and right now a miracle is happening to _you_. Don’t you…” she floundered, gesturing “—feel _some kind_ of way about that?”

               Deb is so fond of me, it’s sometimes startling to realize just how fond. She helps me, spends the time to spell things out for her miracle-impaired big brother when others would have quit trying long ago. It’s not unappreciated.

               “Some kind,” I offer, and she smiles.

               “Then stop being such a horse’s ass. C’mon. We’re happy for you. _You_ be happy for you.”

               “That doesn’t make any sense.”

               “Shut up and convalesce.” Deb griped, but she gave me a affectionate punch on the arm when she said it.

               “Is he being a good patient?” That was Rita at the door, arms full of Downey-scented towels.

               “Naw,” Deb said, “but I don’t have your bedside manner.” She gave me a very suggestive look, and I rolled my eyes.

               “Well, maybe this will help—” The towel was, admittedly, very nice. The tension in my shoulders eased, and I felt one last _pop_ as something slid into place.

               “Oh, _sick_!” Deb exclaimed, “I heard that one!”

               “That’s your shoulder joint,” Rita said, hovering over me—casting a critical eye over the proceedings. “Not your shoulder-shoulder, the one where your wing meets—no, don’t try and move it on your own—” I felt her hands wrap around a limb that simply hadn’t existed a few hours ago—it felt, to put it bluntly, fucking strange. “Everything looks good to me.”

               “Great,” I offered, without enthusiasm.        

               “It’s almost finished,” Rita assured me. “Your feathers are coming in.” I turned, curious—my skin was mottled in places, large dark swathes edged with tiny quills just beneath the surface. They pressed against the skin, and with a bizarre sensation—like a thousand tiny pinpricks—they burst through.

               “Gnarly,” Deb commented. “Looks like you get to skip the awkward frozen-turkey stage.”

               “Cody will be jealous. He was downy for two years before he got pinfeathers.”

               _Lucky me_.

               “Yeah, but those baby pictures are _cute_ ,” Deb said. “What’s the wingspan, you think? Seven feet?”

               “Seven and a half, maybe,” Rita guessed. “Cody’s been knocking things off shelves like crazy these days, and he’s only three-point-two. I think I’ll have to give in and put everything away in the cabinet until you’re used to all of this.”

               Condemned to a life of demolishing knick-knacks and getting stuck in doors. There’s your miracle, Deb.

               “This is all so…arbitrary,” I said. “No rhyme or reason to any of it.”

               “It’s not,” Rita said, firmly. “Things happen for a reason.”

               I can’t imagine finding comfort in the idea that everything happens for a reason—that some distant cosmic arbiter allows tragedies to strike us down in the service of a greater good while the underserving escape unscathed. I don’t trust any kind of pattern except the one I make.

               But then, living like Harry taught me…I rarely trust at all.

               Deb’s phone rings and she snatches it from her pocket; its open and at her ear before I can blink. “Way to take my fucking calls, Masuka,” she snapped, then paused. “Oh, whoops, sorry Angel—I figured it was either one of you. You’re both assholes for leaving me hanging—and trust me, you definitely want to fucking hear this…” She stood, taking her conversation down the hall and out the front door, in the front yard. Even from out there, I could hear the distant whistle of falling f-bombs.

               “She’s so happy for you,” Rita said, dreamily. “It’s wonderful how close you two are. She couldn’t wait to let everyone know.”

               I try for a bland, reassuring smile, but the grim reminder of my situation made my mask slip. I grimaced.

                “You’re really not happy about this,” Rita said, clearly upset at the realization. She combed her fingers through my hair, nails sliding gently across my scalp. That, at least, was a pleasant sensation. “Why?”

               I shrugged, making the quill-like protrusions on my wings rattle. “Things will be different.”

               “Different? How?”

               The words were out of my mouth before I could weigh the danger in speaking them aloud: “I don’t like to be looked at. I don’t like to be noticed.”

               “Why? What would be so bad about people noticing you?”

               _It makes stalking my victims a nightmare_. And that was true, but that wasn’t _it_. I had been avoiding the actual issue, pushing it down the list of priorities and here it was: if people _noticed_ me, if they saw something other than what they wanted to see…

               They would know that the creature they know as Dexter is actually a sham, a fraud, a lure: a wooden boy, hollow like a gutted fun-fair structure.

               And after so many years of hiding, I realize I don’t want to be found out. The lie is…pleasant, to me. It’s so well-constructed that even I fall for it. I am Pygmalion, gazing at my lifeless work with longing.

               “I’m just private, I guess.” I settled on.

               “Don’t I know,” Rita said, with a wry smile.  “You and Deb are like that—humble, I mean.”

               That’s now how I would put it. Paranoid might be closer.

               “I’ve known that since I met you,” she went on, undeterred—“and I know you have a good heart. You don’t realize it, but it shows—now it shows inside and out.”

               Her free hand rested on the edge of the mattress, and I brush my fingers over it—small, fine-boned, once shattered in multiple places by her violent ex. One misstep on my part could smash Rita’s life more thoroughly than Paul ever could have. I never intended to put myself in this position—I never intended to put her in that position.

               “I’m not sure I can measure up to your vision of me,” I admit.

               She laughs. “Stop worrying,” she assures me. “You already have.”

               Harry told me not to make a promise I couldn’t deliver on—he ensured that I would become a very particular predator, not a scavenger or con-artist. It’s too late to take back the lie. As far as my options go, the only viable path seems to be continuing living it the best I can.

               The prospect is daunting, but as Rita twines her fingers in mine, it doesn’t seem at all unpleasant.

               “I have good news and bad news,” Deb announces. “The good news is I talked Masuka out of throwing you a party at his place. We’re having cake in the break room.”

               “And the bad news?”

               “The bad news is Masuka is buying the cake, so a stripper is probably gonna pop out.”

               “I’m taking a sick day,” I told her, and Rita laughed.

               “LaGuerta said to take a couple,” Deb replied, without missing a beat.

               “You called our _boss_ —?”

               “Yeah, and you can thank me tomorrow, while you’re lounging around and taking full advantage of your PTO,” Deb cut me off. Then: “Holy shit, I think I see feathers—”

               _Something drab_ I pray, sending my intention out into the universe (won’t Angel be proud), and maybe my plea was heard—or at least, considered. The top of my wings—the coverts, Rita calls them—are a glossy but unassuming brown, a shade that matches my hair. They give way to a longer set, these are the rusty red of a stubborn stain, also acceptable—but it seems as though the Cosmic Arbiter will only meet me halfway, because the primaries…

               Rita thinks they look like cardinal feathers, and Deb teasingly calls their color “cherry lipgloss”, but I know that shade when I see it—the hot spray of arterial blood, arcing through the air and spattering against my face—my mother’s blood, the blood that stained me as a child, worked its way deep inside me and ate away at everything it touched; now working its way back to the surface for all to see.

               The vision of the boy in the blood comes to me again, his feathers sodden, soaked in blood, wings too heavy to lift. He drags himself through the gore, unable to fly—he gives up and wallows in it.

               It’s an image of myself I don’t like at all.

               Deb passes out on the couch. Rita checks and checks again until she is satisfied there have been no complications, and at long last crawls into bed. I try to give her some room, but the logistics of bed-sharing have become even more convoluted. She crawls under my wing and drapes it across her like a blanket, giggling.

               “Red suits you, I think,” she says. She runs a finger down a long primary.

               “Blood is my occupation,” I agree. _Sometimes my preoccupation_.

               “Well, there’s that,” she admitted. “But that’s not all there is to you. It’s also love, passion, courage…”

               None of those things sound like me, but if I learned anything tonight it’s that I won’t be able to talk her out of it. She’ll live that lie until the day my own lie comes crashing down. If nothing else can go my way tonight, I can only hope to stave off that day a little longer.

               We lie together in the dark, and I listen to Rita’s breath growing slow and steady. I could sneak out now, if I wanted to—go through with my initial plan. It would be trickier now, but—

               But every time I’ve tried to cut off a part of myself, it’s come back more persistent than ever. Memories, needs, desires—I can’t rid myself of those. Odds are, I won’t be able to rid myself of these either.

               I’ve been the arbiter for fate for so many, it feels strange to have met a fate of my own. This setback is hardly a permanent one. I’ll figure something out.

               I always do.  


End file.
